Ronan’s the first to speak once Kimber’s safely out of earshot. “He’s escalating,” he says, his voice hard as steel. “It’s been too long. Bryce knows we’re part of the destruction now—and he knows we’re not on his side anymore.”
Rowan leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the screen I still hold in my hand. “That’s not leverage,” he says quietly. “That’s desperation.”
Berk lifts her head, and there’s something lethal in her expression—no fear, no hesitation, just cold fury. “Then we hit back,” she says, voice like cut glass. “We don’t give him time to think he has power. We end this before he tries to use her against us.”
I nod slowly, my throat tight, the rage blooming hot under my skin. The photo’s still on my screen, my mother’s eyes wide with terror. Whatever Bryce thinks this is—a warning, a leash—it’s the last mistake he’s ever going to make.
Because this isn’t fear he’s planted. It’s resolve, and we’re done playing nice.
But as much as I want to tell myself I don’t care that she made her bed and can rot in it, the truth crawls up my throat, anyway. I don’t want my mother dead. She’s done enough damage, sure—years of drinking, pills, choosing every poison she could find over her own kids—but that doesn’t erase the woman she used to be. When we were little, before our lives went to hell, she was warm. Funny, even. She used to braid Kimber’s hair and sing off-key while she made pancakes. Back before the accident that took Berk’s and the twins’ moms, before the grief turned her into someone unrecognizable.
I stare at the photo again, at the terrified version of her bound and gagged, and all the memories I’ve buried start clawing their way out. Kimber still loves her. She clings to the fragments that I can’tanymore, the pieces of a mother who used to try. I can’t take that from her.
“You need to call him,” Berk says, her voice calm but edged with steel. She stands just behind me, close enough that I can feel her warmth at my back, grounding me. “The phones are trace-proof. I took care of it. Use the visual filter, keep the background hidden. I don’t want him seeing where we are… I don’t want him staining this place.”
Her tone is practical, almost cold, but I know what’s behind it. She doesn’t want him tainting this place—the one small corner of the world that finally feels like ours.
I glance at her, really look at her, and for a second, I forget to breathe. She’s calm in the face of this, focused in a way I wish I could be. Her eyes are on the phone, her mind already three steps ahead, calculating. She’s not just trying to protect me—she’s protecting Kimber too. Protecting all of us.
I nod slowly, my stomach twisting. “Alright,” I say, exhaling hard. “Let’s see what the bastard wants.”
Ronan steps closer, crossing his arms, his expression carved from stone. “You sure you want to play it this way, Em?”
“No,” I answer truthfully, thumb hovering over the screen. “But if I don’t, he’ll think he’s winning.”
Berk gives me a look then—one that holds quiet fire and faith. “He’s not,” she says sternly.
Her words ground me, and for the first time since the message came through, I feel something steady under my feet. I take one more breath, hit the call button, and wait for Bryce to answer.
Because no matter what game he thinks he’s playing, he’s about to learn that we don’t bluff. Not anymore.
The call connects quickly, and Bryce’s face fills the screen—hair wild, eyes rimmed red, a frantic fatigue that used to hide behind executive suits. I can tell he’s on edge before he speaks. He snarls straight into the camera, eyes locking onto me like a viper. “You took something from me,” he spits. “Give me Kimber back and I’ll let your mother live.”
My throat goes dry. Kimber is not bargaining material. Not now. Not ever. My voice comes out cold. “She’s not coming back.”
He swears under his breath; the words spilling out in a jagged mix of panic and rage. “What the fuck is this?” he mutters. “Since when do you little shits have balls?” His grip tightens, the gun pressing harder to my mother’s temple as his voice drops, turning inward, almost reflective. “Didn’t think you’d hold it together after that car accident.”
The contempt in his tone is heavy, ugly—like the last part isn’t meant for us at all, but for her. For the woman he’s using as leverage. The words barely qualify as sentences, just venom dressed up as thought.
Bryce’s voice slides into venom. “You should’ve died too,” he says, jerking the gun so it jabs my mother’s temple. She flinches and makes a tiny sound that turns into a muffled whimper. “You stayed home. You fucking ruined the plan! But we made you into nothing but a whore.”
Something shifts in her eyes then—subtle, but unmistakable. The fog thins, clearing just enough for a fragile thread of lucidity tosnap into place. She works the gag loose and spits it free, breath hitching once before she steadies herself. Her gaze locks first on the phone, then flicks to Bryce, sharp and unyielding. Berk stays carefully out of frame, hidden by design, her presence deliberately kept invisible—we’re not ready to reveal her yet, not like this.
Instead, my mother forces out my name, her voice a thin, defiant rasp that cuts through the room. “Emerson,” she whispers, each syllable weighted with urgency, “don’t bring her back here. Ever. They killed Daphne and Evelyn.” Her eyes slide toward the twins, their faces just visible in the corner of the phone’s frame, and her expression crumples into something heavy with grief and sorrow—like she’s carrying the past, the truth, and the warning all at once.
The admission freezes us in place, the air snapping still around us. Berk and the twins go rigid beside me, their shoulders tense, eyes wide and unfocused as the weight of it sinks in. The room fills with a thick, suffocating silence that presses down like a physical thing, heavy with shock and disbelief.
Bryce leans in closer, ugly and triumphant. He taunts her, leans down—too close—and then my mother moves. It’s a sudden, desperate lunge, animal and terrible. She bites his neck, and it turns into chaos. There’s a struggle in the frame, grunts and a scuffle of limbs and Bryce shouts. I can’t see the whole scene clearly through the video, but a shot cracks the room apart, then I see my mother go down.
My mother crumples sideways, her body folding as if something vital has been cut loose. Her eyes go glassy, unfocused,and she hits the floor hard. Bryce staggers back, the gun still clenched in his hand, its muzzle smoking as it skitters from his grip and slides across the floor, stopping in a widening pool of blood that wasn’t there a moment ago.
He drops to his knees like the weight of it finally finds him, then lurches upright again, panic snapping through his limbs. The camera jerks violently as he stumbles into it, the frame filling with his face. He claws at his neck, breath coming too fast, blood already seeping between his fingers where he’s pressed too hard, too instinctively, like he’s trying to hold himself together. For one horrifying second, he looks both monstrously dangerous and unbearably small—undone by what’s just transpired.
He snarls at us through the screen, hysteria bleeding through every word. “You’ll pay,” he spits. “I swear—you’ll pay.”
I don’t hesitate. I don’t reach for calm or restraint or any of the careful masks I’ve worn over the years. I choose fury. It surges through me so fast the world tilts on its axis, and every meticulous plan we built frays into a single, brutal need. I lean into the phone until his smirking face fills the screen, until the room feels too tight to breathe in.
My voice comes out level, razor-cold, honed by years of restraint. “Listen to me, Bryce.” Each word is precise, deliberate. “We’ve been coming for you for a long time. Haven’t you noticed?” I watch his expression flicker as I keep going. “The buildings turning to ash. Your partners disappearing. The phone calls that stop getting returned.” I let the silence between each accusation stretch, forcing them to sink in, forcing him to feel it.